I can tell you I earn a hundred grand a month cranking out television scripts faster than a teenager screws. I can tell you I blow most of that moola feeding my periodic table of illegal vices. I can tell you I’d probably be earning more than that if only I didn’t spend most of my nights in bacchanalian parties where-- with a certain panache that would put Giacomo Casanova to shame-- I pick up sixteen-year-old Catholic schoolgirls whose Daddies are fortunately too busy making money to pay much attention. I can even tell you said panache is backed up by a ten-inch cock that shoots pure, unadulterated awesomeness.
This, after all, is the Internet. Pretension, if not outright bullshit, is the coin of the realm.
So grant me the benefit of your gratitude, whatever that amounts to, because I’m not in the habit of pulling your leg… at least not without a generous dollop of that wink-wink, nudge-nudge brand of transparency. I’m quite aware of how much I bullshit you when I’m consciously trying to be more of a douchebag in my posts than I really am in meatspace (for the lulz, I assure you, strictly for the lulz) but I rationalize that with this mantra: hey, if you’re THAT gullible you shouldn’t be on the Internet in the first place.
Indeed, I’ve been much more honest with you strangers than I care to admit. For one thing, you know I’m on the depressing brink of poverty because television writing isn’t as lucrative a career as it used to be. But that’s a rant for another day. Suffice to say if I didn’t have such a hardworking wife (God bless ye and keep ye, woman) I’d probably be eating out of a dumpster by now.
Yes, I’m exaggerating about the eating out of a dumpster part-- but not about how hard my wife works.
For another, you know that my only vices are cigarettes, books, movies, videogames, and the occasional cheap likker. About thrice a year occasional, that last one. Hardly of rockstar proportions, you might say. It’s terribly uncool, I know, but my few trips with drugs have left me disillusioned about the whole affair. Instead of expanding my consciousness and unlocking a bottomless well of creativity, drugs turn me into a paranoid, neurotic wreck. The loss of control over my brain horrifies me.
And for yet another, I’ve been pretty straightforward about the extent of my sexual acumen. Mine is a shamefully short list of conquests; about as short as the heartbreaking dimensions of my little soldier. Of that matter, all I can say is that being Asian and having had nothing else save those Teutonic members on display in pornographic movies as a source of comparison have left me with the impression that I am truly wretched.
To top it all off: 476 words into this post and I still don’t know what my point is. I’m obviously making this up as I go along. Now you see where I hide the bullshit machine. Please ignore it and turn your attention to the next paragraph.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dissing the venerable art of bullshit at all. A lot of times bullshit is the saving grace of humanity. Bullshit has kept things interesting since the dawn of our kind. When the scarred old hunter described the boar he slew like it was the most fearsome beast that ever leapt out of the navel of God, we forgave him. One does not admit to murdering an old, diseased creature; not when firelight was casting tattered shadows on the cave walls and the tribe was sitting in barely-contained anticipation of the tale. When the intense young sculptor wrestled a fearsome, sneering, arrogant bust of Beethoven from the noblest of stones, we forgave him. One does not immortalize in gleaming white marble the doltish expression of a deaf old coot; not when the centuries will turn him into the prototype of modern rockstars. When the patriot started spinning tall tales about Washington and making him up like he was, for all intents and purposes, the son of God, we forgave him. One does not mention how George who cannot lie owned slaves; not when the nation he founded is now so goddam awesome it deems itself the moral and cultural compass of the universe.
Given these precedents, we can’t really blame a lot of bloggers for presenting their lives as a bit more awesome than they actually are. After all, we visit blogs mainly for entertainment and, forsooth, the repetitive and largely unoriginal series of pointless tragedies we call real life is about as entertaining as watching slime mold grow and embark upon its own pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. So no, I don’t have any beef with bullshit when employed for the purpose of entertainment. Only please, keep it believable.